


Helldream

by bittenfeld



Category: Sleepy Hollow (TV)
Genre: Angst, Blood, Brutality, Dark, Demonic Abuse, Demonic Desire, Friendship, M/M, Nightmares, Physical Trauma, Psychological Trauma, Slash, Suicidal Thoughts, Violence, demon, vengeance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-31
Updated: 2014-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-10 15:43:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1161580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bittenfeld/pseuds/bittenfeld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ichabod must fit into this new world in which he finds himself.  Yet something haunts him… something in the darkness… something that desires him… something he’s not quite sure he wants to face…</p><p>Final – Chapter 8:  This chapter is a work in progress.  I wrote this after I saw the preview for episode 6, where Ichabod is deciding to kill himself, but before the episode ran.  I wanted to write my own take on the idea before I saw the show’s.  So all similarities in my fic to the episode are coincidences.</p><p>“Ichabod… you’re, umm… not gonna go crazy, are you ?…”<br/>“Crazy?” he finally retorts.  “I was dead for two-and-a-half centuries... revived to live again, in a world I hardly know… I am fighting the very Horseman of Death… who has taken friends from my bosom, and killed them before my eyes… My beloved wife is trapped in some god-forsaken Purgatory at the hands of the Hell-king Moloch himself… So, Leftenant, if that doesn’t qualify as permission to ‘go crazy’, then pray tell me, what does??!!”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A word of explanation: Yes, in my stories, I do have Ichabod and Abbie living together (most platonically, of course!) in Abbie’s house. Right from the first episode, the TV show was so inspirational, fanfic-wise, that several plot-bunnies hopped into my brain and grew before any of the show’s canon had been revealed to us viewers. Therefore to feed my bunnies, I had to create a background of my own. For instance, later on in my story, before we find out from the show that Ichabod and his family lived in England, I decided to have them moved over here to America (although Loyalist most surely, as many families around the Hudson Valley indeed were, back in the day).  
> Oh, and by the way, in my world, the Horseman is not their Abraham von Brunt, but most assuredly 100% a total luscious (sexy!) demon from the depths of Hell…! He never was human, and he definitely has no interest in Katrina (!). And Ichabod and Katrina don’t have a son – I don’t follow the story line of Henry Parrish at all.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod must fit into this new world in which he finds himself. Yet something haunts him… something in the darkness… something that desires him… something he’s not quite sure he wants to face…

__… and his name that sat on him was Death… and Hell followed with him…_ _

_Blackness bellies up before him, black agony, black terror, utter soul-swallowing blackness.  He wants to run – but to where?  An eternity of nothingness stretches in all directions.  If he can’t find a way out, he will be dissolved by the blackness, it will take him into itself, and he will be forever trapped; it wants him, it draws him to itself – no, _something_ in the blackness seeks him, wants him to join it, promises of warm darkness, promises of sweet poison; and yes, he can feel the allure… of dark power, of delicious pain, of blood lust… of exquisite – death…_

Abruptly Ichabod jerked wide awake in bed, a terror-cry half-caught on his lips.  A cold sweat spangled his skin.  Again the dream had come, again – each time reaching out to him, stronger, more desirous – yet what it was, he couldn’t quite remember, couldn’t quite hold onto.

Reaching for the bottle of water on the nightstand, he gulped a few swallows to clear his throat and settle his nerves.  6:13 AM read the illuminated clock-face.  Normally he would have been up before this – he had always been a light sleeper.  But now the dream seemed to hold him, wanted to keep him… and perhaps one time – dear god – it might finally win its possession of him.

***

From the kitchen window, Ichabod gazed out over the woods to the east, as he nursed his breakfast cup of coffee.  Through a gap in the black lowering sky, the failing early sunlight, in its last gasp, lit the land below with an eldritch fire.  Against the storm-pregnant sky, surreal colors of intense reds and greens and yellows glowed across the hardwood forest stretched across the northwestern hills.  In another few minutes the light would be gone, the land darkened by sheets of rain pummeling the earth, but for right now the morning sun tried valiantly to hold its own.

He had seen the light like this before, so sensuous, so rich, the afternoon before that final battle – the day he died.

And somewhere just beyond the hills was the site of that battle, Freeman’s Mill.  He could almost believe nothing had changed – the land, the woods.  He could almost believe that he had lived through that battle, and only a mere two-and-a-half months had past.  That his commission would soon end, and he would return to his home and his wife, and all the plans they had talked about…

Except that two-and-a-half centuries – not months – had come and gone.  The war was over, but his home was gone, Katrina was lost to him, and all the happy plans for their future together long fallen to dust.

Perhaps the northwest woods looked the same, but to the south a whole new world encroached.  Sleepy Hollow, a city of over a hundred-thousand inhabitants – not the little hamlet of Tarrytown that he recalled.  Turning his gaze, he could see the sodium-glow of the boulevard’s street lights, the neon signs proclaiming downtown’s various businesses, and the changing red and green traffic lights at the nearby intersection.

And if he needed further proof that this was no longer his world, the rumble of a big-rig hurtling down the turnpike a short distance away and the blast of its air-horn jerked Ichabod out of his reverie.

Why was he here?  What could he possibly hope to accomplish in this place he could hardly comprehend, much less participate in?

The door to Abbie’s room opened, and the black woman strolled out in her robe and slippers, towelling her shower-damp hair.  Although Ichabod might be a light sleeper, she liked to sleep in, especially on a quiet Saturday.

“Hey,” she greeted with a yawn, hanging the towel over the chair-back of a breakfast-bar stool.

Turning toward her entrance, Ichabod announced, “I was dead for 232 years.  Abbie, I quite fear I may be disintegrating.”

“And good morning to you too.”  Passing by on her way to the coffee-maker, she mumbled, “What are you talking about?  Disintegrating?”  Curiously she glanced over his tall lanky form, as if to check how literal his pronouncement was.

Realizing what it sounded like to her, he corrected, “I did not mean physically… although we cannot dismiss that possibility either.  My body was kept intact through witchcraft – but now that I have awakened, will the intervening time catch up with it?  But no, I was referring to my mental equilibrium.  When you first met me, you all assumed I was deranged.  I was not _then_ … but we cannot discount the possibility that I may very well be losing my mind now little by little.”

“What do you mean?” Abbie asked, placing her mug under the coffee spout and pressing the brew button.  “I know it’s been a shock, but you’re fitting in pretty well.”

Turning his attention back to the window now spattered with the first spit of rain, Ichabod shook his head.  “I have lost 232 years.  To me, it seems like yesterday – that last battle – yet 232 years have passed.  I shouldn’t even be here.  Your world is not my world.  To be suddenly thrust into a strange arcane world with no orientation.  Everyone I knew, loved… is gone, and I am alone… every _thing_ I knew is gone…  The last I knew, when I died – what seems to me to be no more than yesterday – my parents were alive… Now they are the ones dead… Because I died, I didn’t have a chance to share their lives… Yet even now, as I am once again alive, yet they are still lost to me… lost back in the dust of centuries.  My friends… even my enemies… all are gone, yet here I am… and I can never go back…  Separated – irrevocably – from all I knew… Abbie, can you even begin to imagine what such an existence is like?”

“No,” she admitted compassionately, “I can’t, Ichabod.  And I’m sorry for all you have lost.  But at least you have new friends now, you have me… and Captain Irving.”

A soft snort and quiet aside.  “Captain Irving would prefer to see me institutionalized in your safe secure asylum…”

At the dry look on his face, she acknowledged, “I know it’s… not the same… But Ichabod, there are things you do recognize – like the old livery stable – ”

“You mean, the Starbucks?” he corrected wryly.

 “… well, okay,” she had to admit.  “But what about the old armory – you saw it still had things you recognized, like the old cherrywood secretary, and the old black powder magazine… and things like that…”

“Even now, you say the ‘old’ livery stable, the ‘old’ armory.  They weren’t old when I knew them,” he rejoined bluntly.

She smiled a little.  “Hey, I’m trying to help you here – stop shooting me down.”

His expression softened.  “I know you are, kind lady… and I thank you.  Unfortunately words alone will not solve the conundrum which my existence has become – and that, I fear, will ultimately lead to madness.”

Comfortingly she took his hand.  “I’m sorry.  I wish I could connect everything for you.  I wish I could snap my fingers and create a magic bridge to connect your old life and your new one.  But I can’t.  The best I can suggest is that at least a few things from your life before do still exist,” she reminded.  “Concentrate on those things, and little by little you’ll make connections with this new world.  For instance, do you think it would help to go back to Freeman’s Mill… to the battlefield – the last place you remember?”

“The place where I… died?”  Shaking his head, he rubbed an idle thumb over her knuckles.  Voice quivered lightly.  “No, I don’t believe I am quite… ready for that.  Perhaps later.”

“Ichabod.”  Tentatively she probed, “All these feelings of confusion and disorientation – is that… what your nightmares are about?”

That drew a sharp look from him, but she admitted, “I hear you cry out.  I know you’re having trouble sleeping.”

At first he didn’t say anything, but frowned.

Gently she added, “Ichabod, I know you’re afraid.  I admit it – I’m afraid too.  I’m afraid of the Horseman, I’m afraid of all that we have to do… And I’m terrified that if anything happens to you… if you… leave me… in _any_ way… I won’t be able to go on…  I’m scared, Ichabod, I _need_ you to stay whole… if you don’t… I won’t stand a chance.  I’m as good as dead… at the hands of the Horseman, or god know what other… place… thing… demon…”

Comfortingly he smiled softly at her, stroked a reassuring hand over her hair.  “Then for your sake, I will do my very best to remain here… mentally and physically… I promise, Abbie.”  And he smiled a faint smile of assurance for her sake, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes.

***

He would have said that the whole time he was dead had passed in an instant.  That one moment he was barely conscious in the hospital tent, lying weak and in pain, drowning in the froth of his own blood; and the next he jerked to sudden wakefulness, half-buried in the muck of a cave.  No sense of time passing, no sense of any awareness of any place, no heaven or hell or purgatory.

_And yet, brief snatches did flash back, teasing, barely caught at the far corners of his mind, of blackness, of emptiness, of wandering alone in an eternity of nothingness.  And yet, not alone – for something else wandered there too, something else trapped there as well.  Something that knew he was there… and hunted him._

* * * * *

_to be continued…_

 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The nightmare in the darkness creeps closer... the incarnate horror to which Ichabod is blood-bound.  
> 

_Darkness, warm and sensual – yes, he is at home here. This is familiar to him: the black of darkness, and the red of fresh blood. He can smell the fear and sweat and blood of the prey-victim trembling before him. The iron scent teases his nostrils like an elixir, warmth thrills through cold veins, dances power along ice-nerves._

_The axe hefts in his grip. It is more a part of him than any lover could be. The wooden handle fits his grip well, worn smooth from the touch of his fingers over the centuries. The metal blade, honed to the thinnest edge, hums finely when it swings. It thirsts for blood as much as its master does._

_The prey-victim before him, the petty little human huddled on bended knees, begs for mercy, for one meager bit of kindness. The man’s face is blurred, features indistinct, but it doesn’t matter. The piteous creature is but one of a hundred, one of a thousand, and how many more before that? He has heard it all before – the pleadings, the bargainings, the whimpers. It amuses him, when they try to reason with him, sway him from his purpose. It adds a touch of spice that teases his solar plexus, tingles the warm arousal growing in the core of his belly. He lets the creature beg to be spared, he can afford to wait – the longer he draws out the moment of death, the greater the pleasure._

_Until finally the flood surges over him in near-orgasmic climax; and the axe swings its death-arc, slicing through flesh and bone. With a spray of hot blood, the victim’s head, its face frozen in that moment of horror, hurtles off, and the headless body tumbles limply to the ground._

_… and fire flashes in savage blue eyes, blood-spatter raining over wild mane of hair, as a roar of triumph bursts from bearded lips skinned back over white teeth…_

… And Ichabod jerks upright in bed, screaming in terror…

* * *

“Ichabod!” Throwing open the bedroom door Abbie burst into the room.

Trembling in abject horror, he stared at her with wet eyes, and could only gasp starkly, “I was him! Abbie, I was _him_ …!”

“Who, Ichabod?”

Blankly he turned his face to the floor. “There was a man… I was facing a man… he was on his knees before me, crying… pleading for his life… but I would not heed him…” Sweat rolled down his face. “…Then coldly… cruelly… I swung the axe in my hand… and beheaded him…! His head rolled to my feet… and his blood spattered…” In horror, Ichabod raised his hands before his face as if to see the blood really there. Again he looked up at her, painful guilt drawing his face, breath panting ragged gasps. “And I _liked_ it… I craved it gleefully… the cries and the blood… and the moment of death… And he was not the first. I’ve been doing it again and again… in my dreams… I’ve been killing others… night after night… _That’s_ what my dreams have been… !!”

Kneeling beside the bed, and taking his trembling hands, Abbie looked up into his face with care. “Ichabod, that’s all they are – just dreams. You’ve never beheaded anyone – ” and suddenly realized what she’s saying, and corrected, “well, not since the Horsema – ” Abruptly she cut herself off, not wanting to bring up that terrible incident that started this all.

But he continued, voice quavering, “Don’t you see? In the dreams, I _am_ the Horseman… I feel what he is feeling… the bloodlust… the death lust…”

“Ichabod.” Gathering him into a comforting embrace, she urged his head to fall against her shoulder, and gently stroked his sweat-damp hair, as his breath hitched with half-choked-back sobs. “It’s not surprising you’re dreaming about the Horseman. God knows we’ve been completely preoccupied with that bastard when we’re awake – it’s only natural that he’s in our subconscious as well.”

But rolling his head in negation against her shoulder, his tears dampening her pajama blouse, he insisted, “It’s more than that. I’m bound to the Horseman by blood. I fear he is taking over my mind.”

Taking his shoulders with a sharp shake, the black woman made him look her in the eye. “Don’t even go that route,” she retorted. “Dreams can play head-games with you, especially nightmares. Don’t give it power over you – don’t give _him_ power over you. Come on, let’s be logical about this. The man – in your dream just now – was it anyone real? anyone you really know?”

He shook his head.

“Well, you see, then?” she pronounced with supportive assurance, holding him to herself again. “It’s just a dream, Ichabod. That’s all. Let it go.”

* * * * *

_to be continued…_

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To try to help Ichabod through the nightmares that threaten to claim him, Abbie suggests that the two of them take a little journey through Ichabod’s good memories.

“So, were you born around these parts?” Abbie queried as she scrambled eggs in a small bowl.

Seated at the dinette table, Ichabod explained, “No, I was born north of London in the Barony of Hampton Downs, the second of three children. My father was the baron. My brother was ten years older, and my sister was born here in the colonies when I was seven.”

“Ooh, nobility.” Abbie’s eyebrows raised as she quipped, “So, am I supposed to call you ‘Your Lordship’ now?”

A wry sidelong glance cast her way. “I pray not. I left that behind a long time ago.”

“So what brought you to these shores?”

“After fifteen years of teaching at Oxford, my father was offered a position by a colleague who had emigrated to the new world some years earlier – a professorship at a newly founded institute, Kings College.”

“That’s Columbia University now,” Abbie interjected. “Ivy League. Very prestigious.”

“Is it? I’ve also always supposed that my father developed a bit of wanderlust, and decided to see for himself this new land. So, leaving my elder brother in charge of the family lands, my parents and I came to America in 1755. I was six at the time. We settled in a Loyalist township about two-days’ ride north of here – New Bedford, where my father bought an estate. For the most part, Mother raised my sister and me while Father was living at the college. We only saw him when he came home between semesters.”

“Two-days’ ride to New Bedford?” Abbie grinned. “Make that less than an hour by car.”

“Less than an hour…” Ichabod mused. “How you people compress time and distances these days. Like your ‘airplanes’ which you say can circle the entire globe in less time than it takes for the Earth to make a rotation.”

“Yup. And I haven’t even told you about rocket ships yet, and going to the moon, and stuff.”

“Going to the moon? Now you are certainly jesting with me, lady.”

“Nope. Neil Armstrong, ‘one small step for man…’ and all that. We’ve send unmanned craft to Mars, shot satellites into the sun, and even sent a probe out beyond the solar system. I’ll tell you all about it some other time. Right now, I want to hear all about your life here.”

Warmly he looked at her. “You’re just trying to get my mind off the Horseman and the nightmares, aren’t you?”

“Any way I can, love, any way I can.” She smiled. “You seem to be sleeping better these past few nights. I haven’t heard you call out.”

“No,” Ichabod agreed. “The dreams have calmed down recently. Perhaps you were right, perhaps it was no more than the stress that has pursued both of us these past few months.”

“I told you so. Hey, that creep is enough to give anybody nightmares.” And setting a plate of scrambled egg and sausage before him, she sat down to her own breakfast. “So, what good memories do you have about your childhood?”

A forkful of food was tasted – and deemed delicious – before he answered, “I remember Mother taking us to daily mass at the village church, Holy Cross Anglican Church. The service would usually bore me, so if I could sneak away, I’d run to my secret hiding place in the vestry. Until one of the ladies of the sacristy would find me and haul me back to Mother.” Ichabod smiled, fond memories replacing some of the terrible tension. “I wonder if the church is still there. Although it’s probably gone by now,” he surmised, “no doubt supplanted by one of your modern condo developments, or some such…”

“Holy Cross Church – on Winchester Avenue?” Abbie echoed.

“Yes,” he agreed. “Do you know of it?”

“It’s still there,” she announced, with growing interest. “Ichabod, why don’t we take a drive up there this morning? Like I said before, I’m sure it’ll help you to see things and places you recognize. We can see the church, maybe even your old home. How about it ?”

Ichabod nodded. “Yes, I think I should like that. Perhaps it will indeed lift this cloud that has settled upon me.”

* * *  
“Well, I’m sorry your family home was replaced by a shopping center,” Abbie consoled, as she turned the corner from the main thoroughfare of New Bedford, and onto the residential Winchester Avenue.

With a casual shrug, Ichabod added, “Including a Starbucks.”

Abbie grinned. “Yeah. Including a Starbucks.”

“Still, the town still retains the quiet atmosphere I remember.” Gazing out the windshield at the sedate cottages set back from beech-tree-lined sidewalks as the car passed by, Ichabod mentioned, “I only hope that our descendant who sold the family land to the shopping center controllers managed a profitable bargain. My brother had an excellent head for business, which is why my father left him back in England to govern the estate. I only hope our descendants were just as keen-minded.”

“With the Crane blood in them?” Abbie ventured. “I’m sure they were. Oh, here we are.”

At the sign on the wrought-iron fence proclaiming: “Holy Cross Anglican Church, Fr. Stephen Fletcher, Vicar”, Abbie turned the sedan onto the entrance road and passed through the gate.

“Oh my.” With a soft breath of wonderment on his lips, intently Ichabod leaned forward, gaze taking in everything as they rolled down the road – the well-manicured lawn, the ancient chestnut trees. And across the parking lot, the old greystone church. “Oh dear. Oh my,” he breathed again.

Pulling into a parking space near the front of the sanctuary, Abbie watched him fondly. “Is it just like you remembered?”

Interest brightened as he took in the familiar sight. “I daresay, not a stone has changed. It is exactly as I remembered.”

“Well, c’mon, let’s go in.”

Together they walked up the few stone steps into the church. At the entrance to the sanctuary, Ichabod paused to look around, and down the center aisle and the altar beyond. “Well, of course the electric lighting is new,” he noted. “And the carpet – it was only bare wood flooring when I last visited. And the organ is different.” He moved into the room. “But by and large it is very much…” Abruptly he stopped by the holy-water font, a curious expression furrowing his brow, as his voice trailed off, “… the same…”

“What is it?” Abbie questioned his hesitation, moving closer, as Ichabod somewhat carefully dipped his fingers into the water basin.

Rubbing thumb over wet fingers experimentally, Ichabod noted a bit lightly, “Well, at least it didn’t burn me – I had considered that with the taint of the Horseman’s blood upon me, I might not be able to touch the holy water.”

“Nah, you’re fine,” Abbie assured. “All the good in you waaay outweighs any little dirty smudge the Horseman has left on you. But you know,” she considered, “if this stuff will burn the Horseman, we oughtta take gallons of it home with us.”

Ichabod’s eyebrow raised in a wry expression. “I can hardly imagine how we would phrase that request to the vicar.”

But Abbie only shrugged. “Hey, he’s a priest – he knows all about demons and stuff.”

“In theory, yes,” Ichabod agreed. “But one of the Horsemen of the Apocalypse in actual incarnate form? – I rather doubt.”

Moving down toward the front of the sanctuary, Ichabod paused at one pew, gently touched the old polished wood.

Abbie moved closer. A brass name-plate decorated the pew arm, and she read aloud: “‘Franklin and Isabel Crane’. Your family pew? Your family must have been a big supporter of the church.”

“Yes. My father often donated a goodly sum of money to the church.” A quiet wistful smile played on his lips. “I remember many an evening at the vicarage, after supper, my father and the vicar sitting in the large upholstered chairs before the fireplace, engaged in quite a lively discussion or two about the proper interpretation of some Biblical passage, or some canon law of the church.” He glanced over at Abbie, the smile broadening. “My father had quite… stout opinions of what God’s plans for humanity must be.”

“Mule-headed, huh?” Abbie grinned. “Mm, must run in the family.”

A humorous sparkle flashed in blue eyes. “Are you saying, dear lady, that I am quite set in my ways?”

Her gaze moved over his tall form. “Well I haven’t been able to talk you even into a simple change of clothes yet, have I? So, yeah, that’s kind of what I’m saying…”

A properly miffed expression crossed his face. “I am quite satisfied with my habiliments, if you please.”

But that only caused a soft chuckle to escape her lips. “I rest my case.”

“Yes, well…” Then shifting his attention back to the doors of the church, he started out. “Shall we return outside? I should like to see the cemetery.”

“You want to see your parents’ graves? Are you sure you’re ready for that?” Abbie ventured.

With a quiet look of resignation, Ichabod acknowledged, “I think I must… yes. I have told you that, to me, my previous life was barely two months ago. I feel that I recently saw my parents, and they were very much alive then. Perhaps I need the visible truth to finally put that part of me to rest.”

“Well, then lead the way,” she ushered with a gesture.

The cemetery, grass neatly mowed and rose bushes trimmed, sat at the back of the church, bordered by the long gravel path which led from the parking lot in front to the vicarage, a small cottage set a short distance away among dogwood and maple.

“Looks like the oldest graves are over here,” Abbie noted, indicating area closest to the north wall of the church.

As they strolled between the graves, Ichabod paused by a pair of granite headstones. “Frank and Emily Rutherford, died October 15 and 19, 1789,” he read. A small noise escaped his lips, as he commented tenderly, “They were our neighbors. Oh dear, I wondered why they died so close together.”

“I see a lot of dates around that same time, the fall of 1789,” Abbie noted. “There must have some catastrophe that happened here, or maybe an epidemic like the flu or something.”

“Flew?”

“Influenza - a virus... umm, disease. Usually arrives in the fall. People still die from it, even these days. Oh – Ichabod.”

Turning to see what she had found, a single large headstone over two graves, Ichabod gave a little sob and slowly lowered to one knee.

“ ‘Franklin and Isabel Crane – Lifted to Heaven on Angels’ Wings’,” softly Abbie read the engraving. “Franklin born 1719, Isabel born 1722. Both died on November 2, 1789. All Souls’ Day.” Gently she touched his shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Ichabod.”

Silently he gave a little nod of acknowledgement. For a long moment he said nothing, enveloped in meditation, until finally he spoke. “225 years, but it pains as though it was yesterday.”

“I know.” Then, as her gaze shifted to the gravestones nearby, she mentioned, “Well, here are some who survived whatever happened in 1789 – and some that were born after. So whatever it was, at least it didn’t wipe out the whole village.” She read some of the names. “ ‘Eulalie and Henry Carter’. Oh, and here’s one named for you – Ichabod Franklin Carter. Was Eulalie your sister, and is this her family?”

At the first mention of the names, Ichabod had looked up. “Yes. And young Ichabod Franklin is – was – my nephew.”

“Well, I see a lot of Carters around here. It looks like the Crane blood did very well for itself. So you can be proud of that.”

“Indeed.” Gradually his gaze swept over the various names. “Some of these I recognize, but others were born after my… death. Nieces and nephews I could have been a loving uncle – and great-uncle – to, if I had but had the chance. How I miss them all.”

Observing his melancholy, Abbie asked, “Listen, if this is too much for you, would you like to leave?”

“No,” he assured. “I suppose I do find it comforting in a way, and it does offer some sense of finality. Since I can never return to the life I knew, I must let it go.”

“Well, take all the time you need, hon,” she urged.

Then as they neared a far corner of the cemetery, a sudden look of interest sharpened his eyes and purposefully he strode toward it. There, nearly hidden amid the wild grass, was a small jumble of rocks. As Abbie caught up to him, she saw him just standing there with head bowed, tears running down his cheeks.

“What’s wrong, Ichabod?”

Wistfully he explained, “When I was about eight years old, my pet hound died, my best companion. We had been inseparable as long as I could remember. I knew of course that the church wouldn’t allow an animal to be buried in a human cemetery. So late one night, I brought the dog here, far away from the people’s graves, and dug a shallow hole – as deep as an eight-year-old could – and buried it, said a little prayer I made up, then scattered a few rocks around, to suggest a cairn, but not so obvious as to be noticeable to anyone else.” Then looking directly at her, as if to drill in the reality to her, he pronounced, “The year was 1757 – _two-hundred and fifty-six years ago_.”

Sympathetic tears moistened her eyes as well. “I’m sorry, Ichabod, I really am. I know all this must be really hard for you.”

Resignation glimmered mildly in red-rimmed eyes. “I read your author Thomas Wolfe, who said, ‘You cannot go home again.’ And I do venture to suggest that no one is more qualified to vouch for the validity of that sentiment than I.”

“That’s probably true,” Abbie agreed.

Then with a final look around, Ichabod seemed satisfied, and announced quietly, “Very well, I think we can leave now.”

As they started back, a voice close behind spoke, “Welcome.”

And they both jumped slightly and jerked around, as if expecting to find the Horseman right upon them.

But it was merely the parish priest, a fortyish-year-old man vested in black cassock with the long white tails of a preaching band about his neck. He held out his hand. “I’m sorry to have startled you. I’m Father Stephen Fletcher, the vicar of this parish. Are you new to the area?”

“Father,” Ichabod greeted, taking the man’s outstretched hand. “We were just visiting. My parents – ”

“Used to live here,” Abbie interrupted quickly. “My friend has ancestors in this cemetery that he, umm, hasn’t visited in many years.”

“Well, please, I didn’t mean to interrupt you. It is very peaceful here, isn’t it? I often like to stroll among the trees and commune with the resting souls here. And if later you would care to attend Mass, please feel free.”

With a brief nod, Ichabod acknowledged, “Thank you, Father, perhaps some time we shall.”

* * *  
“Ancestors?” Ichabod murmured, as Abbie maneuvered the car onto the Tarrytown turnpike.

Glancing briefly at the rear-view mirror, Abbie merely shrugged, “Well, ‘descendents’ sure would have raised a lot of questions. And parents _are_ ancestors, after all… in a way…”

“Well, yes…” Ichabod started to agree, when the cell-phone’s ring-tone interrupted him.

Frank Irving’s name displayed on the screen.

“Captain,” Abbie answered.

Irving’s retort was brusque. “Mills, where are you?”

“We’re southbound on the turnpike, about 25 miles out of town. What’s up?”

“Well, haul your tails back here asap – we’ve got an incident.”

Nervously Abbie and Ichabod exchanged glances. “What… incident?” she queried.

“Your friend paid another visit last night,” Irving informed them. “We’ve got another beheaded corpse. 35268 Arnott Boulevard.”

A breath escaped Ichabod’s lips. “Oh dear god…”

* * *  
The front yard of the two-story brownstone had become a flurry of activity, as various police and coroner’s personnel engaged in their duties, passed in and out of the house. Several patrol cars, the coroner’s wagon, plus the mobile lab van, parked in skewed positions on the grass.

Over to the side, by the van, lay a sheet-covered body on a gurney. The aroma of roasted meat cloyed in the still afternoon air.

As Ichabod and Abbie approached, Irving came out of the house.

“What happened?” Abbie questioned, wasting no time with greetings. “Who’s the victim?”

Hands in pockets, Irving led the way to the gurney. “Rodney Garrison, owner of Stepping Stone Shoes downtown, father of two. Nice respectable businessman. No reason he should be targeted – but then, nothing this bastard does is reasonable.”

Abbie looked up at her supervisor. “Same M.O. ?”

“Yeah.” Pulling back the sheet, Irving exposed the headless corpse. Some blood had dried on the skin and stained the pajama shirt, but most of the bleeding had been seared by cauterization of the severed neck flesh.

Despite herself, Abbie moaned at the grotesque sight. Even after seven of these corpses, she still didn’t find it easy to bear.

In contrast, Ichabod seemed sternly in control of himself. “Where is the head?” he questioned.

With a tilt of his jaw, Irving indicated a table a short distance away surrounded by lab techs. “Over there.”

“When did it happen?” Abbie asked, as Ichabod left them.

“Last night – coroner’s guessing around midnight. His housekeeper found him this morning – she’s at the hospital right now with fits of hysteria – ”

A sudden sharp cry grabbed their attention.

Staggered back against the front-stair railing, pale with shock, Ichabod was staring at the uncovered head. Haunted gaze shifted wildly toward Abbie. “It’s him,” Ichabod gasped, a shock of horror shuddering through his flesh. “… _it’s him_ …!”

“Who?” And then in an instant she guessed, “Your dream? Oh no… Ichabod…”

Crazed eyes only stared back at her.

* * * * *  
_to be continued_


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The hellish dreams are threatening to absorb Ichabod, so he feels he must seek outside help: the vicar of the church in New Bedford – who may know more than he has let on…

Leaning back in his office chair, hands folded in his lap, Irving questioned, “Have you two discovered anything yet as to how he’s picking his victims?”

“No, sir,” Abbie had to admit lamely. “It seems at random… and yet I can’t believe a Horseman of the Apocalypse is no more than just some crazy serial killer. He’s got to have some purpose. Some demonic prophecy he’s fulfilling….”

“Horseman of the Apocalypse. Demonic prophecies.” Irving’s eyes rolled in faint belief. “Lieutenant Mills, do you know how ridiculous that sounds in a police report?”

Seated across the captain’s desk, Abbie’s gaze dropped. “Yes, sir.”

But in turn, Ichabod eyed the black man sharply. “And just how ridiculous is eight beheaded corpses, Captain?”

“Not at all,” Irving retorted levelly. “So, tell me, what’s all this about your ‘demonic’ friend and your dreams now?”

Abbie balked. “He’s not ‘our’ friend. We’re not tied to him, thank god.”

But Ichabod shook his head. “Perhaps not ‘we’, but I very much am. Obviously the dreams – at least the last one – was a premonition. Somehow I saw who the Horseman would attack next.”

“Well, if you have any more these ‘dreams’,” Irving immediately insisted, “I want you to remember the faces.”

“I don’t see how that would help – we don’t know who they are, we’re helpless to warn them or prevent the deaths.”

“You say you have a photographic memory. You get him to the forensic artist, Mills, and get the faces copied down. Maybe police files or city or county records might be able to identify them, and we can warn them ahead of your demonic axe-murderer’s visit.”

“And just what would we tell them?” Abbie questioned.

“Oh, I’ll leave that all to you, Lieutenant.”

 * * *

Seated on Abbie’s sofa, forearms resting on spread knees, again Ichabod looked over the eight police file photos spread across the coffee table. Eight faces, eight lives cut short, eight riddles. What could the connection possibly be? Wearily he leaned back on the couch and rubbed his eyes.

And tried once more to think of his dreams. The earlier victims had to be there. Had to. At the time, he had not remembered any details. But now, if he went back over them, tried to draw them forth, perhaps he would recall in greater clarity something, anything, that might provide a clue.

Yet sinking back into those dreams dredged up the blackness as well. He had to fight down the revulsion, had to hold himself steady as he allowed the dreams to unfold once again, the black morass that threatened to pull him down into itself, he had to become the Horseman once again.

And gradually the images re-formed in his mind, faceless at first, blurry and indistinct, one fading into another; _and the smell of blood fills his nostrils once again, as the weight of the axe fills his hand. And then he sees – one face after another – and yes, he knows them, recognizes them. And feels the hungry desire of the blade flowing up his arm, dark energy filling his body, empowering his soul, sweet blood-thirst, a living thing, he would take their heads again and again, and gorge on their death-screams like a surfeit of the sweetest honey._

But as the temptation swept over him in warm blackness, pulling him into its sweet grasp, abruptly he jerked himself and slammed the edge of his fist against the corner of the table, breaking the spell, along with a sharp grunt of pain.

“Hey,” Abbie called from the back of the house. “you okay?”

Two deep steady breaths to calm himself, before he answered, “I am now… yes.”

Abbie appeared in the doorway. “What was that all about?”

“I called forth the dreams again – the ones from before that I could not previously remember clearly.”

She moved closer. “And…?”

Fingers grazed over the spread of photos on the table. “And these others were indeed my…” – voice caught slightly – “my… victims.”

“The _Horseman’s_ victims,” Abbie corrected, sitting beside him on the couch. “Not yours. You’re just seeing through his eyes. Mental telepathy, ESP. And that’s a good thing. Your dreams give us an edge over him. We can use it against the bastard. Like Irving said, any more dreams you have, we’ll get the pictures down, and we’ll be able to warn them ahead of time. Save their lives.”

But Ichabod just shook his head. “No, Abbie, you do not understand. This is not just like reading another person’s mind. He is a demon. To touch him at all is to absorb a part of him into one’s self. It is a poison, yet utterly desirable, like an opium dream. I feel its pull. Thus far, I have been able to counteract it and free myself. But I fear that later I may not be able to.” Again the look of despair and horror haunted his eyes. “So, don’t you see, Abbie? I told you before – I really may be going mad… my mind may indeed be disintegrating… what if I become like him? what if I turn… what if I become a danger to our cause… to others… to you…?”

“You won’t!” she insisted urgently. “You’re strong, Ichabod. You can fight him… You _will_ fight him!”

“Abbie, I cannot continue like this. If the dreams continue, I will no longer be able to hold onto my sanity.”

“Don’t say that. Captain Irving and I are here for you. We’ll help you any way we can.”

Sadly he shook his head. “I’m afraid neither you nor the captain have the ability to deal with demonic possession, for that is what this is. I think I should like to speak with Vicar Fletcher. Perhaps he can offer some… spiritual assistance.”

“If you think he can help, by all means, I’ll take you back to the church as soon as you want to go. We can’t let the Horseman win, Ichabod, we just can’t.”

“Most certainly we cannot. Yet his hold on me is becoming stronger. I cannot pretend otherwise.”

“So, how much do you plan to say to the reverend?” Abbie ventured. “Are you going to tell him everything? how old you really are? how you got here?”

But Ichabod just shrugged and replied, “I will elucidate as much as is necessary. After all, as you said, priests do have a familiarity with demons and such.”

“Demons, yes, but 250-year-old Revolutionary War soldiers?” A tilt of head expressed her lack of certainty.

 * * *

“It’s good to see you again, Lieutenant Mills, Mr. Crane,” the vicar greeted, coming around from behind his desk to clasp their hands with a warm smile. “And good to finally be properly introduced. Please have a seat, both of you.”

"Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Ichabod acknowledged, taking a chair, while Abbie chose to remain standing. “I am sure you are very busy, and we would not bother you if it were not for a matter of great import.”

“Yes, you sounded quite concerned on the phone, I’m happy to make time for you.” Moving his chair around the desk, the priest settled down facing them. “So, what can I help you with?”

Abbie spoke up. “First, Father, I think I should begin by saying that you might not believe what my friend is about to tell you, but believe me, it really is the truth.”

The vicar smiled gently. “Well, I would hope that a person in need would feel safe to speak the truth to a priest. I am here to help in any way I can. And please rest assured, I’ve heard quite a bit in my tenure.”

“Welll…” she rolled her eyes to the side slightly, “ _this_ you probably haven’t heard before. But I vouch for him, and so does my supervisor, Captain Irving. So please listen to what he has to say with an open mind.”

As she turned to leave, Ichabod assured, “You may stay, Abbie. Anything we speak of is for your ears as well.”

“Nah,” Abbie declined. “I think you and Father Fletcher need to have a little private chat. Take as long as you need. I’ll wait in the car, or maybe take a little stroll around the neighborhood. It’s a beautiful day. Just give me a call when you’re done.”

 * * *

“Would you say that you believe in the literal reality of supernatural beings, Father?” Ichabod queried without preface. “ – Such as angels, demons… the Goetic inhabitants of the nine levels of Hell… the Horsemen of the Apocalypse?”

With a tiny smile, the vicar responded, “I think most of the time angels and demons can be considered symbolic representations for the urges in the human heart – good and evil. But do I believe they actually exist as real entities?” A slight nod of head. “Yes, Mr. Crane, I do. I’ve seen their work, and I believe that they are much more than simply psychological constructs of the human mind. And you? Do you believe in them?”

“You have seen their work,” Ichabod acknowledged. “I have seen _them_. Father Fletcher, how old would you say I am?”

The priest gave a little shrug. “I’d say maybe early thirties. A little younger than myself.”

Leaning forward to capture the man’s attention directly, Ichabod announced, “Actually, Father, I am far older than you. I am really 264 years old. I fought in the Revolutionary War, where I killed – and was killed by – a man who turned out to be no man at all, but a Horseman of the Apocalypse: Death. I have literally faced against the demon lord of the seventh realm, Moloch, and I have battled hand-to-hand against his minions.” And there he paused, waiting in anticipation of the priest’s reaction of disbelief.

But no surprise registered on the other man’s face. A lingering moment passed before he spoke. “Mr. Crane, I must confess to a grievous sin: I was here in my office when you and Lieutenant Mills entered the church the other day, and I overheard – quite by accident at first – all that you two said about the Horseman and about your family. I was quite fascinated by your… unusual… conversation, and so I, um, deliberately allowed myself to eavesdrop on you when you went out to the cemetery.” With a gesture, he indicated the office window. “You see, my window opens up right on the part of the cemetery where you were standing. Needless to say, the fact that you were speaking quite seriously about your parents and relatives being among those buried in the 1700’s, more than piqued my curiosity. So I finally realized I should speak up, and that’s when I followed you out and introduced myself.”

Ichabod studied the priest’s expression. “So,” he ventured, “do you believe me, or do you feel as others do that I should be committed to an asylum?”

“I believe you, Mr. Crane.” Fletcher allowed a tiny smile. “And yes, I am speaking the truth. Because you see, I have another confession to make: through some friends of mine, I had already heard about your resurrection – and the Horseman’s. That’s why I was quite intrigued when I realized you were visiting the church. Still, I didn’t want to say anything at the time, since it wasn’t my secret to speak of. But indeed I hoped that you would come back and choose to confide in me – and now you have.”

But at the man’s admission, cautiously Ichabod straightened in his seat, defense walls raising. Carefully watching the priest, he probed, “These friends of yours – are they perchance… Hessian?”

Immediately Fletcher pulled back, raising innocent hands, and quickly reassured, “No, not at all, Mr. Crane. Forgive me for alarming you.   Please believe me, I’m on your side.”

“Perhaps I might,” Ichabod allowed coolly, “if you would tell me more about yourself and your friends. Right now you have me at the disadvantage – you seem to know more of me than I know of you.”

With a slight nod of head, Fletcher acknowledged, “Of course. My friends and I, and many like us, are very much aware that, for whatever reason, in this area, the veil between our world and Hell is very thin here. Over and over, Evil has attempted to penetrate, in many forms. For generations we have watched, observed, protected, fought when necessary. And some have even lost their lives. Unfortunately we haven’t always been successful. Because others, like the Hessians, as you well know, have assisted Moloch and his demonic servants, and allowed them through. But we will fight as long as we can.”

“What is the name of your group?”

“We don’t have a name, we aren’t a single group. Through the generations, some have been united with various Wiccan covens, working in the shadows; others, like me, went into church-work, the better to work out in the open to hold the bastion against Hell. And others just work quietly in their own way. We all do what we can.” He offered a meek smile. “I have no proof for you of what I say, but I would be greatly honored if you would believe me, Mr. Crane, and allow me to assist you any way I can.”

For a tenuous moment, Ichabod considered, before finally acknowledging, “I shall, Vicar, partly because I sense you are an honorable man, and partly because we have very few we can turn to for help. And particularly at this moment, I dearly need the assistance of a priest, or I shall not be able to continue much longer.”

“Of course. How can I help you?”

“When the Horseman and I both fell on the battlefield, our blood commingled, and because of that, our spirits are connected. Now the Horseman’s power over me is growing stronger, and if I do not find a way to stop him, he may indeed claim me, and Moloch will claim a victory.”

“May I lay hands on you?” the priest requested. “I have a bit of a technique that might allow me to sense the Horseman’s presence, and perhaps give an idea of how best to help you.”

“Please do, Father,” Ichabod allowed, offering his hands, palm up.

The priest laid his hands upon Ichabod’s, then urged, “If you would care to close your eyes, Mr. Crane, I will lead us into a meditative state.”

Compliantly, Ichabod closed his eyes. The man’s fingers were warm on his own.

“Now envision walking through the woods, the forests along the Hudson River. Perhaps an animal will come up to you. Let me know when it does.”

Ichabod allowed himself to relax, thought of the beech and spruce woods of the river valley as he remembered them, and a warmth and calm filled him. _Green spring-grass meadows.  It is the world as he knew it – before – and the memory settles his nerves._

_Then up on a hill, watching him, he sees what he was looking for._

“I see it,” he announced. “An elk.” With his eyes still closed, Ichabod smiled. “Your totem animal, Father? I do not believe this ritual is in the Anglican books.”

“You’re right,” Fletcher agreed. “It isn’t,” and Ichabod could hear the slight humor in his voice. “I studied for eight years with a shaman of the Seneca people. I find this technique quite useful, in certain situations. Now, allow it to approach you, and feel free to commune with it any way you wish.”

_Ichabod waits and just watches, as the deer approaches across the grassy meadow. He says nothing, but allows himself to open to it, allows it to look within him. And he can feel the soft gentle tentative touch probing around the edges of his mind, his soul. The darkness hovers near – he can sense it – but it doesn't – perhaps can't – move closer to envelop him this time. The elk senses it as well, but doesn’t seem the least bit afraid of it, even moving closer to examine it._

_Until suddenly Ichabod hears a fast hard gallop of hoofbeats approaching from the woods; and looking up from the elk, watches in horror as a blackness bellies up through the trees, roiling toward them, withering everything around to dead skeleton starkness.  And then out of the maelstrom, the Rider on a pale horse plunges out of the black death-cloud, galloping full tilt toward him and Fletcher’s totem: the Headless Horseman, brandishing his broad-axe in a murderous charge. Ichabod tries to yell, but no sound issues from his throat; he tries to hurl himself before the elk to protect it, but his paralyzed legs refuse to move._

_The blade swings; Ichabod braces himself for the cutting slice that will tear off his head –_

_\- as the elk rears up on its hind legs; and from its chest a sun-burst blazes forth, illuminating the Horseman and everything around in dazzling white light._

_Half-blinded by the brilliance_ _himself, Ichabod barely sees the demon’s horse rear up against the assault before it and the Horseman wisp away, along with the elk, like steaming vapor._

Abruptly Ichabod and Fletcher both jerked their hands apart, breaking the mental connection.  Ichabod’s eyes snapped open to stare into the pale shocked expression of the other man.

“The Horseman.  My god,” Fletcher pronounced, panting, eyes wide open. “You're right. He is close.”

“Yes,” Ichabod agreed, even as his heart raced. “At least… the burst of light – you drove off the Horseman with it.”

“No – that was not my doing,” Fletcher admitted, still half-stunned. “The elk sacrificed itself - to save you.”

* * * * *

_to be continued…_

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ichabod and Abbie visit the vicarage for a pleasant evening of dinner and conversation. Ichabod and Vicar Fletcher find they have quite a bit in common, as Ichabod discovers a link between his previous life and his present one – a link that, after all the horror he has been put through, brings warmth and friendship to him. Something, finally, that can heal his sanity and hold the demons at bay – for a little while…

“Well, I must say, you are right,” Ichabod pronounced, wiping the last trace of pot roast gravy from his lips. “Most delicious. Had you lived 250 years ago, you would have most certainly given Colonel Brewer dear competition.”

The priest grinned. “Well, I wish I could have met him – we could have had a cook-off – a real competition.”

Abbie gestured with her glass. “For that, even I would’ve been willing to live back then. But listen, you come visit us in Sleepy Hollow soon, and try Ichabod’s venison stew. He won’t say how he prepares it, but it’s really good. He says sometimes it kept the troops from starving. ”

Ichabod looked properly humble. “Well, when I or someone was able to shoot a deer, at least it gave us a welcome change from the usual army fare.” Then looking directly at their host, he noted with great import, “Did you know that you can now _buy_ venison at your modern 'grocery stores' ? One needn’t go shoot one in the woods anymore.”

Fletcher chuckled, and Abbie had to put a hand to her mouth to stifle her laughter.

“Well, it’s much more convenient,” the reverend assured with a straight face. “You can’t just go out and shoot one in the woods anymore. You first have to buy a license from the Department of Fish and Game, and it can only be during deer season, and you’re only allowed a certain limit.”

“Well,” Ichabod retorted. “Then we probably would have indeed starved to death. And the Colonies would still be under British control. Indeed – all your modern rules and regulations.”

“Welcome to the 21st century, my friend.” Then folding his napkin and pushing back his chair, Fletcher suggested, “Shall we move to the sitting room? I want to hear all about your experiences, and I’ve got a million questions.”

“Well, I hope I can answer them,” Ichabod responded. “At the very least, I pray I don’t bore you to tears, as I often do the lieutenant here.”

Following out of the dining area behind the priest, Abbie insisted, “Hearing a first-hand account about George Washington is interesting for the first half-dozen times. After that – ” A roll of eyes concluded her sentence.

A large grey granite fireplace dominated the walnut-paneled room. Absorbed in memories, Ichabod strolled over to the hearth to rest a hand upon the mahogany mantel. In the center stood a glass-domed century clock with a delicately painted enamel face, flanked by two tall ivory candlesticks in silver holders. To one side, on the slate apron, stood a rack of fireplace utensils; to the other, a cache of seasoned wood. With late spring warmth, there was no need for a fire this evening, so the two andirons stood empty within the hearth itself.

Two upholstered wing-back chairs sat before the hearth, offering comfortable intimacy. With a gesture, Fletcher invited his guests, which Abbie immediately took him up on, settling into one. However with a slight shake of his head, Ichabod chose to remain standing,

Availing himself of the other chair, the priest queried, “Is it like you remember, Ichabod?”

Fond memories moistening his eyes, Ichabod’s gaze moved about the room. “Very much,” he acknowledged. “And not even considering the two centuries between, it still seems as a long time for me, twenty years since I visited as a child.” Strolling over to the opposite wall to the built-in bookshelves, and the long oaken table behind the overstuffed chairs, he let his eyes roam over the book spines. “Yet I remember quite clearly my father and the vicar often sitting where you and Miss Mills are right now, engaged in most volatile debate, while I would entertain myself with literature and poetry from these very shelves – Milton, Dryden, Pope…others.”

“That’s quite a reading list for a child,” Fletcher noted.

“Well, taking into account that my father was professor of literature at Cambridge for many years, and then here in the Colonies at Kings College, I fear I had little chance to escape it!” Then turning back, he graced the reverend with a little smile. “But yes, this cottage hold much familiarity for me. And I must say – there seems something even most familiar about you, Steven – I feel as though we’ve already known each other for years. Perhaps you are kin to Vicar Ravenscroft?”

Fletcher shook his head. “No, I’m not related to the former vicar. I did have an ancestor who fought in the War, first at Lexington, then here in the Hudson Valley – I doubt the two of you would have crossed paths, but his name was Sylvanus Bradford – he was among those first who answered the Lexington Alarm.”

“Sylvanus!” Ichabod blurted, with a wide grin. “Of course.”

“You do know him?”

“Oh, quite well indeed. He was in the same regiment as I – the 57th, under the command of Colonel Jonathan Brewer… though that was several years after Lexington. Ironically, I was at Lexington as well; however, I am embarrassed to admit that, at that time, I was a leftenant among the Crown’s Regulars – that was before I defected and turned myself over to General Washington. Ah, we were closest comrades of the heart... (not to mention compatriots of the local tavern…!) Yes, I knew your – what, great-great-great-great grandfather?”

“Add a couple of more ‘greats’,” Fletcher corrected, grinning just as widely. “Well, I’m told I have the Bradford nose and eyebrows, so that’s probably what you recognize.”

“Dear Sylvanus… Oh, I could tell you tales… Who knows, at Lexington, the two of us might have exchanged fire. And if I had been a better shot, just think, you might not be here now. Oh dear.”

“Well, I’ve very glad you didn’t kill each other before you even got to know one another. Please, tell your tales.” And rising from his chair, Fletcher offered, “Here, I think I can dredge up a couple of beers – and one for you, Abbie?”

“Sure, thanks,” she agreed, “but I warn you again, don’t get him started talking about ‘the good old days’, or you won’t be able to shut him up.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. I’m eager to hear all the old war stories.” He returned from the kitchen with several cans of beer, which he handed around.

With interest, Ichabod noted the name on the can. “Samuel Adams? Is this his label? He was a brewer, you know, but would they still be drinking his beer 250 years later?”

Fletcher grinned. “No, this is a much more recent company, just named in his honor. But it’s definitely appropriate for our topic of conversation, isn’t it?”

“Indeed.” Ichabod took a swallow, considering it, then pronounced positively, “Well, I must say, this new company’s brew is much smoother than Sam’s – at least some of his early attempts, which he often foisted on the lot of us.”

“Don’t tell me, you knew Samuel Adams too?”

“Oh yes – and quite a few others whose reputations appear to have survived the centuries.”

“Well, I’d like to hear about them all sometime. But right now, please tell me about you and Sylvanus, and your, uh, pub-crawling days. Everything you know about dear old great-great-great-great-great-great-granddad. All the intimate details.”

Hours passed, as well as several more cans of beer. Ichabod was delighted to be able to talk about his past in full detail with an interested audience, rather than having to hide everything from suspicious persons. And Fletcher was fascinated to hear a first-hand account about his distant ancestor.

“I know he died during the War,” Fletcher announced, “although I don’t know the details of when or how.”

Ichabod apologized, “I’m afraid I cannot help you in that regard. The last I saw him, he was very much alive at General Washington’s strategy muster before the skirmish where I met my… untimely fate… So, at least we can assume he ultimately outlived me…” Ichabod frowned in confused amusement (after a few beers, the ironic comment had rather a sense of black humor). “Well, that had a rather absurd sound to it, didn’t it? I am still having to get used to the idea of resurrection.”

“Well, I’m just glad you are here,” the reverend acknowledged. “It’s like having a living breathing history book… So much better that slogging through old genealogy records.”

But by the beginning of the second six-pack, Ichabod looked over at Abbie who had fallen asleep, curled up comfortably in her chair, feet and legs drawn up, head nestled in the wing-back. “Oh dear. I fear I have put the Leftenant to sleep with the boredom of my stories. Well, it is late. Perhaps it is time for us to take our departure.”

“Well, I could stay up ‘til sunrise, listening to your ‘boring’ tales. However, I do still have a sermon to prepare for Sunday, which won’t be accomplished if we take the time for another round of old Sam.”

“Well, then, you must come to Sleepy Hollow to visit, so that Abbie and I may be allowed to return your generosity.”

“I’d like that very much. Oh, but before you go…” And rising from the overstuffed chair, Fletcher approached the west wall bookcase; then reaching up to the sixth shelf, took down an old medium-sized leather-bound book. There was no title on the cover or the back spine.

He offered it to Ichabod. “Here, take this. It’s a journal I’ve kept for many years – my ‘Book of Shadows’, if you will. I think you may find some matters of interest regarding your battle with the forces of Evil.”

Ichabod took it. “Thank you. We shall return it when you come to visit.”

“No, you keep it,” the priest insisted. “You’ll need it more than I will, for the, uh, upcoming confrontation.”

Ichabod woke up Abbie, and as they were at the door, saying their goodbyes, Fletcher took Ichabod’s hand in both of his. “Thank you for bringing Sylvanus alive for me.”

Ichabod completed the gesture with both of his hands. “He was a friend. A very good friend. And I am very honored to count his great-great-great… great-great-great-grandson among my friends as well.” He had to think and count. “ – is it really that many generations apart?”

With a smile, Fletcher reminded, “250 years is a long time. And trust me, the honor is all mine, Ichabod… Abbie.”  
* * *

As they drove home, in the late night, Ichabod commented, “You know, you fell asleep and missed my recounting of the night Sylvanus and I lost our way returning home from the Crowned Falcon tavern, and were attacked by an angry flock of wild turkeys in Sutter’s Woods. Would you care to hear it now?”

But she only rolled her eyes, and mocked a grimace. “Um, no thank you, Ichabod, I’ve think been around enough turkeys – wild or otherwise – for one night.”

“Are you perchance referring to me and the good reverend?”

“You, the good reverend, and your good buddy Samuel Adams, yeah.”

“I must admit, your world’s Samuel Adams is quite a bit easier on the palate than mine.”

“Are we still speaking of beer?”

“We’re speaking of being subject to diatribes and rabble-rousing tirades at any number of dignitary functions and various dinner parties.”

“Various dinner parties, huh? Well, you were quite the man-about-town in your day, weren’t you? Rubbing shoulders with George Washington, Samuel Adams, Benjamin Franklin…”

“I was not acquainted with Ben Franklin – other than shaking his hand at some diplomatic affair or other. You know, you continue to find it amusing that I happened to live at such an important juncture of this country’s history, and that I knew all these personages famous to you. But at the time, all of these were just men. Certainly well-respected, to be sure, but not yet the legends which they have obviously become in your time. And consider that it is truly by the mere chance of Fortune that you do know their names. At the time, we recognized that the task we were involved in was vital, but we had no idea if we could actually succeed in wresting the new country from the tyrannical grasp of the British Crown. Had we failed, we would surely all have been hanged; and our struggle for what we believed would have been buried and lost. And you would not now be carrying pictures of General Washington on your currency, or drinking Samuel Adams beer, or speaking of Benjamin Franklin.”

Thoughtfully he paused. “You know, Abbie, it is the same for the two of us now. If we succeed in the task before us, perhaps our names will be spoken of centuries hence. But if we fail, we and all of humanity will be lost forever. And we cannot know – at this moment – which outcome will prevail.”

She took a deep breath, commented off-hand, “Thanks for cheering me up, Wylie.”

“You’re welcome.” Idly he looked out the window at the dark scenery passing by, and reminded soberly, “You know I am speaking only the truth.”

“I know you are. Anyway,” she commented, regaining the lighter mood, “I’m glad you and the reverend have hit it off so well.”

“ ‘Hit it off’ ?”

“Connected. Become friends. It’s kind of propitious that it’s the same church you attended as a child. And that the vicar is like an extension of your old friend.”

“Yes,” Ichabod agreed, smiling contentedly. “We’ve been seeking a link between my past and the present, and it looks as though we’ve found it. Perhaps I am finally gaining stability and a foundation to connect my old life and my new one. I foresee numerous pleasant evenings with Steven, just as my father and Vicar Ravenscroft shared.”

“Well, I’m glad for you. Already you seem a lot more relaxed than you have been since the beginning of all this.”

“Yes,” Ichabod acknowledged, then added, “ – of course several rounds of ale might have something to do with that as well.”

“Yes it might,” Abbie chuckled. Then glancing briefly away from the road ahead of them, she tapped a finger on the book resting on Ichabod’s lap. “What’s that?”

He opened it. “Steven’s journal. He called it his ‘Book of Shadows’. He gave it to us, saying that we might be able to make use of it in our battle against Moloch and the Horseman.” In the passing lights of street lamps, he glanced over a few pages. A little noise of surprise escaped his lips. “Hnh. It’s his observations going back many years, of strange occurrences and happenings in the area. Very similar to Sheriff Corbin’s files. It will be interesting to compare them – one will perhaps fill in the gaps in the other, and we may be able to ascertain a more complete picture of just what we are facing.”  
* * * * *

_to be continued…_


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> New – Chapter 6: (This chapter is a work-in-progress, the paragraphs are rather abbreviated, and not fleshed out, so yes, they do read a little rough.)
> 
> The blade is hungry… it is a living thing, and it is hungry for a blood-meal. The energy climbs up his arm, envelops his heart, sings in his black blood…  
> Ichabod jerked awake panting and sweating in utter horror… He knew the face of his victim this time…

_The blade is hungry… it is a living thing, and it is hungry for a blood-meal. The energy climbs up his arm, envelops his heart, sings in his black blood…_

Ichabod jerked awake panting and sweating in utter horror. He barged into Abbie’s room, waking her up, demanding frantically for her to grab the car keys and to phone Fletcher.

She guessed, “your dream?”

“Yes! yes!” he practically yelled, bustling to get her up.

Still in her pajamas, she grabbed her shoes, wallet, phone, and guns (one for herself and one for Ichabod), and they ran out to the car.

They were both frantic with worry. She was breaking all speed limits as they raced to the church. On the way, Ichabod kept trying to call Fletcher, but couldn’t get though, or couldn’t get him to pick up.

Trying to say something to calm them both down, Abbie reminded him “not all your dreams come to pass. Maybe this is just a false alarm. Probably we’ll get to the vicarage, and everything will be okay.”

“No,” Ichabod insisted gravely. “No. He knows. The Horseman knows. He is coming for Steven.”

“Okay,” she adjusted (hardly even calming herself down, much less Ichabod), “well, you know there’s always a few days between your dreams and the, um, real thing… We’ll get the father, and hide him somewhere…”

“No. Not this time. I feel it: He’s coming. Now.”

“Well, then we’ll just get there first,” she pronounced emphatically, and floored the gas pedal.

Ichabod tried calling again, and finally Fletcher answered, but the connection was very bad. Ichabod was yelling at him to get away, that the Horseman was coming. He couldn’t be sure the message was getting through. But Abbie, heart pounding, announced out loud, “Okay, he’s still alive… we’re not too late… we’re not too late… we’re not too late…” over and over, like a mantra, almost like it was a protective spell.

They arrived at the church and got out of the car, ran up the gravel walkway to the vicarage, where the lights were on. And all the while Abbie was still unconsciously whispering her mantra, “we’re not too late... we’re not too late…” But Ichabod was a soldier, and he can already smell blood, tainted with the aroma of roasted meat, and over all, the faint but pervasive death-stench.

And then from the nearby shadows, came the ominous sound of snuffling and pawing, and there they saw it waiting, partially hidden in a copse of maple and dogwood: the pale horse with glowing demon-red eyes.

And adrenalin surging sky-high, they exploded into the vicarage, guns firing –

– and there stood the Horseman… with Fletcher’s headless corpse sprawled in a bloody mess on the living room carpet, his head a few feet away where it rolled against a table leg, eyes open and staring glassily. Traces of smoke wisped up from the cauterized neck-severance, tinged with a barbecue smell of seared flesh.

Calmly, bloodied axe held down loosely at his side, the Horseman turned toward the screaming gun-blazing entrance.

As they kept firing, they could see the impact of their slugs into his body, but the shots had no effect. Both of them were screaming in mindless rage, firing and firing until their guns were empty. Abbie hurled herself at the Hessian demon, but was thrown back, breath knocked out, by a thrust of a powerful arm.

Ichabod grabbed up the nearest implement to use as a weapon – the fireplace poker, and lunged at the Horseman. Brutally they fought. Ichabod parried the axe blows, struck across the exposed neck, gashing the scarred flesh, and stabbing wherever he can, and finally managed to actually impale Death through the ribs, forcing the iron rod in with the weight of his own body. That stopped the Horseman for a brief moment, but only briefly, until he pushed Ichabod away, jerked the poker out, and threw it carelessly aside. Black blood ran from the wound in rivulets, glistening as it soaked into his uniform shirt.

Then reversing the axe with a quick flourish, and wielding it like a quarter-staff, he beat Ichabod brutally, then viciously jammed the butt into Ichabod’s belly. With a sick vomiting grunt, Ichabod doubled over sharply. Then he was hurled across the room, and tumbled into a corner. Blood ran from numerous wounds, trickled into his eye from a gash in the hairline, ran down his upper lip from a bloody nose. Several ribs might be cracked, each breath a stabbing pain.

After the battering he had taken, he was woozy. Brusquely the Horseman strode up to him. Cold fingers reached for him, touched the bare skin beneath his collar almost caressingly. Ichabod shuddered at the touch, as fingertips glided presumptuously, intimately, over the smooth soft vulnerable skin of throat and jaw, sensual yet horrifying. Then roughly the grip jerked open the lacings of his shirt, ripping the material and baring his chest. Possessive and dominating, the cold palm pushed beneath the cloth, slid over sternum, fingers splaying across collarbones, seeping tendrils of icy chill into his flesh. And with the chill, ghastly images filled his mind, images of blood, of death, flesh torn apart, heads sliced from bodies… men, women, lives cut off in a cruel instant by the bloodthirsty blade that Death hefted so casually, so easily – at the same time, he sensed his own thoughts and memories were being drawn into the Horseman – that he could violate Ichabod’s mind as easily as he violates his body.

Grabbing the wrist, Ichabod tried to pull the intrusive hand away. But suddenly the grip tightened about his throat, jamming firmly against his larynx, and the desperate sick sensation of choking overwhelmed Ichabod. Roughly Death hauled him up. Desperately Ichabod’s fingers clutched at the grip around his throat as he gulped for breath against the hard strangling pressure, feet scrabbling to support his weight on rubbery legs, even as he was hoisted up higher, boot toes barely scraping the floor, leaving most of his weight dangling from his strained throat. And he couldn’t prevent the gagging whimpering noises escaping his lips.

Roughly the Horseman’s hard body shoved him against the wall, and even through their clothes, Ichabod could feel the death-coldness of the solid heft pressed against him infiltrate into his own bones. A muscular thigh pressed between his legs. Squeamishly he writhed, terror drawing his testicles up into his groin as a icy lump. Sadistically the Horseman’s vicious grip kept Ichabod right on the edge of strangling, horribly gagging for breath that he couldn’t catch, a hair’s-breadth from having his larynx crushed. And speechless words filled his consciousness, through their blood-link and through skin on skin, he heard a deep sonorous voice that resonated vibrations through his flesh, a silent promise pressed into him: “… _I will come for you_ … _you are mine_ … _forever_ …”

“… _no_ … _!_ ” Ichabod’s mind protested desperately with the last bit of consciousness, before shadows from oxygen-starvation began to cloud his vision, and awareness started to fade.

Until the acrid smell of heating metal stung his nostrils, dragging him back to consciousness, and from the corner of his eye he saw the edge of the axe-blade begin to glow its deadly yellowish gleam. And expected to feel its deadly slash in the next moment.

Rearing up from the floor, Abbie grabbed one of the fireplace andirons, and with all her might, hurled the heavy projectile at Death, managing to catch him squarely between the shoulder blades, knocking him staggering, and making him release his grip on Ichabod, who fell back limply, writhing on the floor, coughing harshly, and gasping desperately for breath.

Then regaining his balance, the headless thing turned to Abbie, glowing axe raised, and she knew she was already dead. That was all the fight she had left, just enough to save Ichabod. Brutally Death struck her a vicious stunning blow, but rather than with the blade, he deliberately, powerfully, back-handed the flat of the axe-head across the right side of her face, knocking her sprawling back. Only a quick turn of her head at the last moment and raising a protective hand saved her face from being smashed in, but even so, she heard and felt bones crunch and snap, and screamed as the burning blade-edge crisped her hair and branded a line of searing pain into her scalp. In agony she sprawled back against the table and fell back on her rear, jostling the reverend’s severed head, which tumbled against her thigh. Horror shuddered sickly through her, breath stuck tight in her throat. Agonizing pain and horror billowed up, and she felt madness swell up to smother her.

Awkwardly, painfully, Ichabod staggered to his feet once more, bloody and bruised, too weak to attack again, but adamantly refusing to stay down. Calmly, not even bothering to lunge for attack, Death just turned toward him. The demonic entity could easily swing the axe and decapitate Ichabod with one swift stroke, but for some reason he didn’t. For a long moment outside of time, the two old adversaries simply confronted each other, a silent tableau, Ichabod panting, pupils contracted with utter fury; the Horseman with axe lowered.

Crisply, Ichabod uttered a wheezing whisper through bruised throat: “Abomination most foul… _I do not fear you_ … _!!_ ”

The figure showed no response. Until suddenly a backflash exploded behind Ichabod’s eyes, staggering him. A moment stolen from his memories, and thrown back at him in brutal, vicious praeternatural clarity – the old battle scene, the playing-out of the moments before their original death-duel. Yet now Ichabod’s notice was forcibly drawn to something he hadn’t observed before, during the actual heat of the battle itself: that just before the Horseman attacked Ichabod, he had swung his axe at another soldier and savagely disemboweled him with one cruel slice – a man, a friend… Sylvanus Bradford.

And the horror of the realization seared Ichabod’s brain, and he crumpled to elbows and knees, screaming in madness.

Then the Horseman turned his attention once more to Abbie, leaning slightly over her stunned form, petrified in a heap on the floor. As a police officer, she had seen a lot. But she had never been this close to this headless grotesquery before, this supernatural horror, and now all she could fixate on in morbid shock was the ghastly view of the Horseman’s severed neck, the open holes of the trachea and esophagus horrifically obvious, shattered white bits of bony vertebras poking up through the old flesh now puckered and scarred over, black blood oozing up from gashes which Ichabod had just inflicted. And she knew that if it weren’t for the fact that her throat was paralyzed, and the blazing pain stabbing her right hand and raking the side of her head, she’d be screaming her lungs out right about now. Or vomiting her guts out. Probably both.

Then satisfied that his task here was accomplished, the Horseman simply turned and calmly walked out of the battle-devastation. A few moments later, hoofbeats clattered along the road before fading into the distance, even as approaching sirens grew louder.

* * * * *

_to be continued…_


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> (this chapter is a work-in-progress, and not fully written out)
> 
> Calmly Irving waits for the other man to gather his thoughts, then suggests, “You confronted the Horseman – how did it go down?”  
> Still Ichabod says nothing. His eyes flicker from empty space to focus directly on Irving’s face, down to the floor, then back to Irving. Sometimes it seems he’s about to speak, but then he just looks away again, and shakes his head, lips tightened, as though there are no words to express the monstrous horrors that crushed Abbie and himself, no words to define the enormity of the evil that faces them all now.  
> “C’mon, Crane,” the captain urges gently. “Say something. At least let me know you’re still alive.”

The housekeeper or groundskeeper who lives nearby heard the gunfire and calls the sheriff’s department. The deputies who respond walk into a horror of carnage: the decapitated body of the priest, the room demolished, and Ichabod and Abbie huddled on the floor, severely battered, and barely responsive. An ambulance is dispatched, and Captain Irving is notified, since the MO is recognized as the same as the other bizarre decapitations, with the neck wounds of the corpse inexplicably cauterized. Ichabod and Abbie are transported back to Sleepy Hollow, to St. Joseph’s General Hospital, the most well-equipped facility nearby.

Ichabod’s injuries are those of a hard beating, bruised all over. Several ribs are cracked. And the obvious signs of strangulation: larynx is bruised as well, but what particularly puzzles the doctors are the strange black marks of fingerprints pressed into the skin of his throat, beyond the regular discoloration of normal bruising. In addition, he’s shuddering with cold, unable to warm up, which also puzzles the doctors, as the weather is seasonably mild and temperate, as though his body’s thermostat has been thrown out of whack. And he’s still barely responsive, hardly answering any questions beyond one or two words, if at all.

Abbie is worse off. Jerking her head away from the axe blow and raising her hand to protect her face, miraculously saved her from broken facial bones; however the heavy iron axe-head broke numerous bones in her right hand, gave her a concussion and whiplash. And even though the bones of her face were spared, the flesh is badly swollen and bruised, eyes blackened, cheek puffy. And on the side of her head near her ear, a burn line brands her scalp.

  
* * * * *

Abbie is lying asleep in her hospital bed, hooked up to an IV, head bandaged, neck braced, arm and hand casted.

Ichabod has left his own room to sit in her room for hours. Bundled up in a couple of blankets, shivering, hands wrapped around a steaming mug of coffee that someone has given him but he’s hardly drinking, he’s just staring dully into space. Eyes are moist and red.

Morales is there, standing by Abbie’s bedside, talking to her unconscious form.   He’s nearly in tears himself. “I tried to tell you, Abbie, hanging around this guy would get you hurt. Why couldn’t you have left it alone?” Angrily he glowers at Ichabod. “You did a hell of a job protecting her, Crane. Thanks a helluva lot, you bas– ”

“Morales.” From the doorway, Captain Irving interrupts authoritatively.

Ichabod’s blank gaze has shifted to focus directly on the detective, Abbie’s ex-lover, but he is far beyond the reach of any careless goading.

“Captain,” Morales immediately switches his attention, but still insists, “Look what happened to her – and all because of this… jerk. Why is he still hanging around the department anyway?”

Irving doesn’t answer the outburst, but just orders, “Stand down, Morales. You’re not helping matters. Get out of here. Go home.”

“All due respect, sir, but I’d rather stay with Abbie. I don’t want anything else to happen to her, and I just want to keep an eye on her.”

“Go home. You’ll be apprised of any changes in the lieutenant’s condition, as will the rest of the department.”

Grudgingly Morales surrenders, “Yes sir.” But as he leaves, his angry look lingers on Ichabod.

Ichabod however is no longer paying any further attention to him, but has gone back to staring into space.

For awhile, Irving watches Abbie lying there asleep. Then he informs Ichabod, “Forensics – the lab – has been testing the substance found on the poker. It appears to be blood, but preliminary results can’t identify it. The lab techs are completely baffled. They say it’s not human, or anything else recognizable. They’ve never seen anything like it.”

A soft humorless snort escapes Ichabod’s nostrils, and he finally speaks a few quiet words. “I expect they haven’t.”

For a lingering moment, the captain watches Ichabod, then finally proffers, “Are you ready to tell me now what happened?”

Ichabod doesn’t answer, as another shiver shudders through his body.

Indicating the steaming cup in Ichabod’s hands, Irving urges, “Crane, drink your coffee. Then tell me what happened.”

Ichabod begins to focus, raises the mug to his lips and takes a swallow, then follows through drinking nearly half the cup, before lowering it to his lap again.

Calmly Irving waits for the other man to gather his thoughts, then suggests, “You confronted the Horseman – how did it go down?”

Still Ichabod says nothing. His eyes flicker from empty space to focus directly on Irving’s face, down to the floor, then back to Irving. Sometimes it seems he’s about to speak, but then he just looks away again, and shakes his head, lips tightened, as though there are no words to express the monstrous horrors that crushed Abbie and himself, no words to define the enormity of the evil that faces them all now.

“C’mon, Crane,” the captain urges gently. “Say something. At least let me know you’re still alive.”

That elicits a small dry sidelong glance, as Ichabod assures, “I am alive, Captain.”

“Tell you what,” Irving suggests, moving closer. “Let’s go out into the courtyard. You can finish your coffee, and we can talk without waking Lieutenant Mills.” There’s a wheelchair in the corner of the room, and Irving draws it to Ichabod.

Ichabod eyes the contraption, and mildly balks, “I do not require the assistance of a wheeled chair.”

“No, but let’s humor the nurses anyway, okay?” Of course Ichabod is obviously too weak to walk very far. Irving helps him into the chair, and tucks the blankets around him.

They go out to a garden. Irving stops the still-shivering Ichabod’s chair by a small stone bench in the sun. Nearby is a barista’s coffee wagon. “Finish your coffee,” Irving urges, “and I’ll get us both some more.” He brings back two steaming cups, hands one to Ichabod, then takes his seat on the bench. “Now, tell me everything that happened. From the beginning.”

Ichabod finally speaks, his voice a hoarse rasp. “We were… too late… I couldn’t… stop him… I couldn’t… save Steven…”

“The priest?”

Slowly Ichabod nods.

“Did you know him? Was he a friend of yours?”

A film of moisture glistens in Ichabod’s eyes. “Yes… My first real friend in this world… besides Leftenant Mills… and a descendant of a very dear friend in my earlier life. Destiny drew us together… and destiny tore us apart.” He blinks, but can’t prevent a tear from rolling down his cheek.

Slowly Irving shakes his head. “But, the Horseman of Death? That still is pretty hard to swallow… I mean, that’s really just a symbolic image from a book written two thousand years ago. You’ve got to admit, it’s difficult not to be skeptical.”

Finally Ichabod’s eyes sharpen once again. “Heed my words, Captain: You no longer have the luxury of skepticism. That ‘symbolic image’ is here – in Sleepy Hollow – in your jurisdiction. He has killed, has spilled real blood, and he will continue to kill. You must accept that you are dealing with utter evil, and plan your strategy upon that basis. If you do not, then this town will become the center point for the most horrific bloodbath the human race has ever known.”

Irving insists, “Actually, what I’d like explained right now is, why are you two still alive? Everyone else who’s crossed this maniac’s path have ended up with their heads separated from their bodies. Why are you and Lieutenant Mills still here?”

“Because he wants us alive for now. And he wants to torture me as best he can. The two of us share quite a personal grudge, going back two-and-a-half centuries. Killing me would be far too quick and easy. I took his head – so he intends to hurt me, and keep hurting me, as much as he can. Already I have lost dear friends to this incarnate evil, which intends callously to take everything from me.”

“And Lieutenant Mills? She’s your friend. Does he intend to take her away later as well? Am I putting her in lethal danger by having her team up with you?”

“Quite possibly. I do agree with Detective Morales – she was put in harm’s way, brutalized, because she was with me. And I could not protect her. Captain, I have no answers as to how to stop him. That’s why I cannot respond to you. I have thought this dilemma over and over, yet see no solution.”

“And that’s why I’m saying to tell me everything in complete detail. What happened last night, and also all other research that you and the lieutenant have done. Because maybe the smallest piece of information will tie in to something else that you don’t know or haven’t thought of, which may lead us to a solution. Like they say, the more heads…” He shrugs.

“Yes,” Ichabod agrees, “and a head is our dilemma, isn’t it?”

* * * * *

_to be continued…_


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a work in progress. I wrote this after I saw the preview for episode 6, where Ichabod is deciding to kill himself, but before the episode ran. I wanted to write my own take on the idea before I saw the show’s. So all similarities in my fic to the episode are coincidences.
> 
> “Ichabod… you’re, umm… not gonna go crazy, are you ?…”  
> “Crazy?” he finally retorts. “I was dead for two-and-a-half centuries... revived to live again, in a world I hardly know… I am fighting the very Horseman of Death… who has taken friends from my bosom, and killed them before my eyes… My beloved wife is trapped in some god-forsaken Purgatory at the hands of the Hell-king Moloch himself… So, Leftenant, if that doesn’t qualify as permission to ‘go crazy’, then pray tell me, what does??!!”

The Horseman is expanding his area beyond Sleepy Hollow (although he must still be able to get back to his coffin in the river before dawn). Although to the general populace, it looks like a mad serial killer is on the loose, he actually isn’t just going after random people. Actually the beheadings are of members of the good coven, or connected to it, like Father Fletcher (the fact that Steven was Ichabod’s dear friend, only made that killing much sweeter, knowing he could twist Ichabod’s guts).

* * * * *

Days later, back at Abbie’s house, Ichabod has just been sitting on the couch, staring off into space, numb. Abbie is getting more and more worried about his mental state, even beginning to wonder if he might be going completely mad and maybe even attack her.

Finally, hesitantly, tentatively, she breaks the silence. “Ichabod… you’re, umm… not gonna go crazy, are you ?…”

Slowly he looks up, fixing her with a wild stare, and she’s not sure she should have disturbed him.

“Crazy?” he finally retorts. “I was dead for two-and-a-half centuries... whereupon somehow, through strange mystical means I have been revived to live again, in a world I hardly know… I am fighting the very Horseman of Death… who has taken friends, old and new, from my bosom, and killed them before my eyes… My beloved wife, half-living, half-dead, is trapped in some god-forsaken Purgatory at the hands of the Hell-king Moloch himself… Apocalyptic war will soon swallow the entire human race… So, Leftenant, if that doesn’t qualify to you as permission to ‘go crazy’, then pray tell me, what does??!!”

To which she has no answer.

* * * * *

Later, Abbie ponders, “How can we kill him? Our weapons have no effect on him.”

Ichabod just shakes his head. “How does one kill Death? One cannot.”

“Then what can we do?”

“I don’t know.”

She thinks back to their confrontation. “He had a perfectly good chance to kill us, and he just walked away. I don’t get it.”

“Don’t you? He doesn’t intend to kill us, not yet. He was taunting us. He knows we cannot kill him. He wishes to hurt us, to torment me. Besides, we know where his head is. He needs us alive.”

But Abbie only reminds morbidly, “He only needs _one_ of us alive…” A humorless smile tugs the corner of her lips. “Y’know, I don’t even know why he feels he needs his head back anyway – he’s doing pretty damn well without it.”

“Yes,” Ichabod agrees absently.

* * * * *

One morning at the breakfast table, Abbie notes Ichabod’s bright satisfied expression. “All right, what’s with the proverbial ‘cat-that-ate-the-canary’ grin?”

Ichabod smiles. “Because I just realized the obvious solution to our little… dilemma. I’ve been looking at this all backwards. I’ve been worried about becoming like him, because we are joined now. But he has a vulnerability now as well. He could never be killed before. But he has been touched by mortal blood – my blood. That also explains why he doesn’t dare kill me. Because if I die, he dies.”

“Great. So how does that help us?”

“Don’t you see, Abbie? _If I die,_ he _dies_.”

“So you’re thinking…” Sudden comprehension washes over her, and a terrible coldness settles in her belly like a rock. “Oh no. That is totally unacceptable. That is _beyond_ totally unacceptable. No… Freakin’… Way.”

“It is the only solution to our… situation.”

“Like goddamn hell it is! No.”

“Abbie. Countless thousands – millions – have sacrificed themselves for others. It is the most priceless thing a man can do to protect those he loves. And now, here, we are talking about all of humanity. If the Horseman isn’t stopped here, and now, he will raise the other Horsemen. Then the Apocalypse will begin, and the suffering of the human race will be unimaginable. There is no other choice.”

“Well, what if you’re wrong? What if it doesn’t work? Suppose you kill yourself and he doesn’t die? What then? How am I supposed to fight him alone?” Tears well up. “I can’t lose you, Ichabod.”

Gently he strokes her hair. “Abbie.”

Wetness runs down her nose, and she snuffs it back. A sad smile pulls the corner of her lips. “Besides, I’d miss you. Doesn’t that count for anything?”

“Abbie, I shouldn’t even be here. I should be dead. I died 250 years ago. Had I not been revived, we would never have met. You would not even know of me, _to_ miss me.”

“That’s not an answer. You’re here now, and you _are_ a part of my life. Are you saying you wouldn’t miss me?”

“No. I am very grateful to have known you, Miss Abigail, and to have been able to count you among my dearest friends. I will hold you in my heart forever.”

“Wait. You can’t kill yourself. You know in Revelation, it says the two Witnesses will protect humanity for seven years. It doesn’t say anything about one of the Witnesses killing himself after only two months.”

“It also says nothing about one of the Witnesses sharing a blood-bond with the Horseman of Death. Abbie, I was given a direct order by General Washington himself – to kill that man. The general understood who – what – that monster was, and the magnitude of the mission which he entrusted to me. It is my bounden duty to carry out that order, by any means necessary.”

“Yes, but that order was 250 years ago! I think the expiration date has passed by now.”

“To you, 250 years – to me, a mere two months since I last spoke with the general. I will not let him down. Abbie, suppose today George Washington entrusted you with a command to save every man, woman, and child on earth – even though it was probably a suicide mission? Would you not feel honor-bound to carry it out to the very end?”

Silently she lowers tear-filled eyes, and nods.

* * * * *

Tears roll down her cheeks. “No. I won’t let you. _I won’t let you _!!”

“The choice isn’t yours to make. I’m… sorry, Abbie. I’m so very sorry…”

Reaching up both hands to the sides of his face, she holds his head to look directly into his eyes. Tears blur her vision as she insists, “Remember, you once said before that the one thing that gave you hope was the realization that this road we’re on can only be traveled together. That the two of us are in this to the end. And I am so going to hold you to that, Ichabod Crane! No way will I let you desert me now. No way in hell! Your orders from General Washington are my orders too now. We’ll kill the damn Horseman. We’re going to fight as many fricking monsters as Hell throws at us. And we’re going to do it together.”

  
* * * * * **FINIS** * * * * *


End file.
